


You used to be happy.

by rayenbow



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Death, Drug Use, Gen, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:38:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayenbow/pseuds/rayenbow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're twelve years old and you just lost half your family." Second-person style introspection on Thea's life</p>
            </blockquote>





	You used to be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a piece I wrote up for a roleplaying event, but ended up going a different direction. I really liked the piece though and I didn't want it to go to waste, so here it is!

The sun is bright bright bright bright and the skies are blue and cloudless and the house behind you is _huge_ , like a castle from your favorite fairy tales, and it's _yours_. You never had to wonder what it was like to be a princess. _You always were one._ If you're the princess, then Mommy is the queen and Daddy is the king and big brother Ollie is the prince. You're young and you're happy and you're blessed. Everything is perfect.

_Everything was perfect._

Your hair is in pigtails. Daddy holds one hand and Ollie holds the other. They pick you up, swing you between them, and you kick your feet and you giggle and you screech.

_You s c r e e c h._

Just like that _just like that_ Daddy and Ollie are ripped away from you, their hands wrenched from yours by the crashing angry sea and the rain and the wind. The storm leaves you untouched, unharmed, but empty and hollow and broken.

You hate storms.

The graves are in the backyard. If you turn your head, you can see your bedroom window. You start keeping the blinds shut. You hold onto Mommy's hand tight with both of yours during the funeral. Nobody n o b o d y can be taken away from you again. You cry the whole time. Mommy doesn't — she's hollow.

It's a long time before Mommy leaves the house again.

_You're twelve years old and you just lost half your family._

You get older. Mom doesn't leave her room. The house is so painfully quiet and you feel so painfully alone. You keep waiting for Daddy and Ollie to walk through the front door. They can't be dead. _They can't be dead. They can't be dead._ You start popping pills and spending your weekends trashed. All the other rich kids do. It makes you feel less hollow. For at least a little while.

_They can't be dead._

Ollie's not dead. He gets rescued from an island, like he's in a TV Show, like his life is somebody's soap opera. You meet him at the bottom of the stairs and you throw your arms around his neck. "I knew you weren't dead," you say into his shoulder, and his arms tighten around you. You missed him. But he's different. And you're different too.

_Nothing is the same._

You find out that your daddy, your king, your rock, the man your heart still aches with loss for all the time, isn't really your daddy after all. Your real father wears fake, placating smiles while he systematically murders hundreds of people in a twisted need for revenge. He's not _he's not_ your daddy. Your daddy died at sea five years ago. _Your daddy is dead._

_There's a boy._

_He steals your heart (and your purse)._

_He holds your hand._

_He teaches you how to breathe again._

You watch your mother die. A very bad man sinks a sword through her chest, like a hot knife through butter, and he doesn't even bat an eyelash. You _scream_. You lean over her and her blood slicks your hands, hot and sticky, and you beg for her not to die. Who are you even begging to? You don't know, nor do you care. As long as she lives. You can't lose someone else. _Please don't die, please don't die, I love you, I l o v e y o u._

Ollie has to pull you away. There's a funeral. You've been to too many funerals. You're only eighteen. It's not like Daddy's and Ollie's. You don't cry, you're not wracked with grief. You're quiet and stoic and afterwards, you seek out your father. Not your daddy. Your daddy is _dead_. You're tired of being hurt, you're tired of your family being ripped away from you. You're tired of being weak.

_No matter what it takes, you will be strong._

Your father teaches you a lot. He teaches you how to fight, how to defend yourself. He's a good teacher. He's a good father. He cares about you and he kisses your forehead and calls you his daughter with pretty traces of pride. You like it when he praises you and you take his advice and instruction to heart. You get better and stronger and forget all about the people he killed and awful things he did. You have a dad again. _He's your dad now._ You love him very much.

_Thanks, Dad._

The bow is in your hands. It's pulled back, taut, the arrow aching to be released. Vaguely, you think about how nice you must look in this outfit, all the black and the hood and the boots, dark and mysterious. Less vaguely, you think about what you've been told to do. 

_"Kill her, Thea. Put arrows in her chest. Kill Sara Lance,"_ Dad says. You can't say no. This is what you've been told to do. So you do it.

It never occurs to you that you don't want to do this. Sara is your friend, she's known you since you were a little girl. She's your friend, _Sara's your friend._ You want her alive and happy and well. But she turns around looking lethal in her black leather and her Canary mask. _"What're you doing here?"_ she asks.

And you put the arrows in her chest.

_She's your friend._

You look in the mirror and you don't recognize the girl who looks back. The girl who doesn't smile anymore. The girl with blood on her hands and skeletons in the closet. The girl who points guns at grown men. The girl who talks herself down from killing people even if they deserve it. The girl who trusts a man that claims to love you and yet-- and yet. You drink a glass of wine. You wonder if Mom would be proud of the young lady you've grown up to be. If Daddy would kiss your forehead and call you his daughter with pretty traces of pride.

Or if the only person who can be proud of you is your father, and only when he's manipulating you into being just like him.

You used to be happy.

_Remember when you were happy?_

You feel like a monster.


End file.
